


Draco's Confession

by Jessicugh22



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Bisexual Harry Potter, Dark, Depression, Domestic Disputes, Eating Disorders, Emotional, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Harry Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley Friendship, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love Confessions, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22982143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessicugh22/pseuds/Jessicugh22
Summary: Draco is planning to end it all. He writes a letter to Harry Potter to explain everything.CONTENT WARNING: This fic is about suicide and mentions suicide and suicidal thoughts, tendencies, and methods. Suicide is not described in graphic detail, however if you are in a dark place I would urge you not to read this fic. This is an unfinished work.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 55
Kudos: 297





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: This fic is about suicide and mentions suicide and suicidal thoughts, tendencies, and methods. Suicide is not described in graphic detail, however if you are in a dark place I would urge you not to read this fic.  
> This is an unfinished work. I have ideas for the rest of the story, but I can't promise I will be able to post regularly. I appreciate comments and/or kudos :)

Potter,

I’m sure you are wondering why this letter is addressed to you. To be completely honest with you, I myself have no clue. Somehow yours is the only face I can imagine reading this note. So, here goes.

I’m dropping all formalities. I’m too tired. If you are reading this, then I’m sure you already know what I’ve done. I’m sure you knew it would end like this for me. I’ve known for quite some time.

Now that my parents are in Azkaban, they are under constant surveillance. When they hear the news, they will not be able to follow me into the abyss. I don’t have to worry about them anymore. True, it hurts knowing the pain I will be putting them through, but somehow I feel that they will understand. After all, it's not as though this is the first time. But it will be the last.

Potter, I don’t know how you feel about suicide, but let me tell you, it is exhausting. I have put all my affairs in order, written out a basic will, made plans and backup plans. Do you know how painful it is to accomplish all of THAT when even just making yourself eat feels like too much of a hassle? Maybe you do, you’ve lost loved ones before. Grief does that to people. The only difference is that the person I’m grieving hasn’t died. He will have by the time you are reading this, though.

Even writing this is taking me days at a time. I have so little energy left. 

I used to look down on people who ended their own lives. I thought they were selfish cowards. I couldn’t understand how they could do that to their families. I couldn’t understand why they didn’t just seek help.

Now, I know. There’s no point seeking help, at least not for me. It’s too hard to fight. Selfish is a gross misunderstanding. Selfless, more like. No one wants me here. My parents love me, but even they hate the man I’ve become. My friends only humor me with their company. Truth is, they probably will be relieved when they hear. 

As for the phrase “coward’s way out”. I can’t deny that I am weak and two-faced. I can’t deny that I am afraid to stay alive. But I’m also afraid of death. It takes no small amount of bravery to cast the killing curse on yourself. And muggles haven’t quite figured out an easier way yet, either. There’s the gun, the rope, the razor, the pills, drowning. None of them sound too appealing, but if that’s what it takes… 

I’ve answered how, now for the why. Well, do I even have to tell you? You know what I am, what I was. Even before I joined the Death Eaters, I was vermin. Constantly trying to get you and your friends in trouble at school. Doing my best to put you all beneath me. Talking down to those I believed were worth less than dirt. I even tried to get Hagrid fired and that hippogriff killed. I was rotten.

Now look how much good all that did me. You’re all war heros, even Hagrid. And me? I was on the side of those people who killed your parents and your friends. My classmates. I lost one of my best friends in the process. Of course it was his own fucking fault, but that’s not really the point is it?

I’m not fit to live anymore. I don’t want to live anymore. Every night I relive what I’ve done, if I can get sleep that is. I don’t imagine that will ever end. I’m not just doing myself a service here. 

When you read this, I will be gone. The world will be a better place.

I’m not one for apologies, but I know that this is one of those things that you don’t just do without expressing your sorrow for the people who will grieve you. So please, Harry, tell my parents I am truly sorry. I am sorry that I failed them, and that I failed myself. Tell my friends I am sorry that I was not a better friend to them. Tell your friends I am sorry for everything I have ever done to them. I know they will not care; I don’t expect forgiveness. I only wish to express…

Well, it doesn’t matter. I am sorry.

And I am sorry, Harry. For everything. I’m sorry that I was such a prat in school. I’m sorry that I joined the people who killed your family. I’m sorry that I never told you any of this till now. I’m sorry that I never…

I’m sorry that you ever knew me, but I’m not sorry that I met you. I wish things had been different, all the time. I wish I could turn back time and reintroduce myself to you. On the train or before that. In Madam Malkins. I wish I could have been your friend, your equal, your…

But I missed my chance. And then instead of trying again, I chose to make you regret it. I wanted you to pay attention to me, to look at me. I wanted to get a rise out of you, to make you lose control. I didn’t really know why for a long time. I assumed it was because you had power, reputation. I thought I wanted you beneath me.

Not to be crude, but I guess I really did want you beneath me. Or on top of me.

I know I’m overstepping my boundaries. I know that this is unsolicited and that even if you were available, it would be a long shot. I guess I just don’t want to die knowing that you never figured it out. 

For a while, I thought you knew and your actions toward me were your way of saying you were not interested. That fucking hurt. And maybe you did know. I prefer to think you were too oblivious to see how much I.. 

Shit, I mean, what do I have to lose. This is a suicide note. It’s not really like I’m going to see you again in this life. 

So.

I’m in love with you Potter. 

I love you, Harry. 

Goodbye.

_Draco Lucius Malfoy_


	2. Broken

Draco set down his quill and wiped his tired eyes. His hands shook as he folded the parchment and stuck it in an envelope. He knew he should read over it - make sure he had gotten everything right - but he couldn’t face putting himself through all of those emotions again. Not tonight. The letter had taken five days to write, and Draco was ready to be done with it. All of it.

Before setting the letter aside, he scrawled Harry Potter’s name on the envelope. He glowered at his handwriting, which had once been elegant and controlled. Now it was like chicken scratch, a clear display of his state of emotional wreck. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, hands over his eyes. He felt as though he had cut a deep hole in his chest and let his heart spill out onto his desk. He never meant to confess his feelings for Harry. It was pointless. Why torture the man who would find his body with an unrequited love note?

It was all a little too overwhelming, and it made him want to cry. It made him want to scream and tear the letter to shreds. Though, even as Draco sat there, alone in that big empty house, his eyes remained dry and his face blank. He just stared at the wall, somewhat frustrated at the disconnect he felt between himself and his body. 

He wondered how Harry would react to finding him dead on the floor of Malfoy Manor. Would he be surprised, even shocked? Or would he just shake his head and get to work? He wondered how long it would take before Harry read the note. And when he read it, how would he feel? Angry? Sad? Relieved? He imagined Harry burning it with a spell, the way he did with all those notes Draco had passed him in school. But that was different, wasn’t it? Draco had been taunting him, teasing him. Pushing him. This letter wasn’t meant to hurt Harry, although it might anyway.

Draco was filled with a sense of guilt, but he was too exhausted to rewrite his letter.  _ Maybe tomorrow, _ he thought. He longed for his bed but knew that with sleep came nightmares. He sat at his desk for a long time, putting off his inevitable submission to fatigue, until his hip bones ached from discomfort.

Finally, Draco got up, crossed the room, and fell on top of his duvet. He immediately fell into a deep but restless sleep.

Across the room, Draco’s eagle owl flew in from the open window and landed on his desk. He clicked his beak, eyeing the unsealed envelope with curiosity. Maybe it was something about the not-quite-dry ink and the way it shone in the candlelight, or maybe it was due to some unexplained magical bond between owl and wizard, but Draco’s owl did something he’d never done before. He clutched the envelope in his talons, hooted softly, and without instruction or hesitation took off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short. i will try to post again tomorrow. thanks for all the kudos!


	3. Harry

Harry stared blankly at the mountain of paperwork in front of him. He had been working as an auror for several months now, and despite getting on well with his coworkers and excelling in the hands-on parts of the job, he never quite got the hang of the monotony of the reports that came after. 

When Harry had decided to become an auror it had just been one of those whirlwind things. He considered it while at Hogwarts but never actually put any research in the day-to-day tasks an auror might have. He had always assumed the majority of the job would be fighting and arresting criminals or protecting civilians against dark magical creatures. He knew it would come with boring stuff like citations and reports, but he never considered that paperwork would be 90% of the job.

Kingsley asked Harry to join the aurors almost immediately after the war ended. At that time, Harry was dying for something to apply himself to - something that gave him goals and a purpose - so he didn’t think twice before accepting Kingsleys offer. Now he wondered almost daily whether he should have put more thought into his answer.

Of course, Harry had been required to finish a rigorous four-week training course before actually going on the job. There was a lot more to Auror work than just showing up at the scene of a crime and throwing around some spells. During the training they went over different types of calls they would need to answer and how to approach different situations. A lot of the cases they were given were closer to the mundane, dealing with witches and wizards who had filed minor complaints or charges.

Harry supposed it might get more exciting as he moved up the ladder towards Head Auror, but at the moment he was feeling relatively disappointed and a tinge frustrated as he irritably began the first report on the stack of paperwork. He worked until he felt a distinct pang of hunger as his stomach growled. He checked the clock on the wall to his right and saw that it was half past four o’clock. Harry eyed his pile. He was satisfied with having completed half of the stack, so he decided to take an early day.

It was Friday night, so Harry was expected at the Burrow for dinner. He thought of skipping, not wanting to deal with the grief that he felt for Fred whenever he saw any of the red-headed Weasleys. But knew that he would regret it if he didn’t go. Friday nights were the only time of the week when he was regularly able to socialize, and he missed his friends.

So Harry gathered his things and used the ministry lobby fireplaces to floo to the Burrow. Stepping out into the kitchen, Harry’s ears were immediately greeted by Mrs. Weasley’s pleased greeting.

“Harry, dear, welcome home,” she said, pulling him into a hug. “We’ve missed you here. You spend too much time in that office.”

Harry smiled and shrugged. She always said the same thing, even though he never missed the family dinner at the Weasleys.

“Harry, mate, you gotta see this new candy George created for the shop!” Ron said excitedly from the table, holding a box of small pink balls which Harry guessed were some sort of prank candies. 

As Harry walked over, he asked “George still at work?”

“Yeah,” Ron answered. George always had to stay at the shop late on Fridays, but he would usually manage to get to the Burrow for dinner around eight. It was the perfect timing because everyone would usually be in relatively high spirits at that point of the night. Then George would show up and talk about all the funny mishaps from his day.

Ron handed Harry one of the candies and started telling him how they worked. Meanwhile, Ginny made eye contact with Harry from across the kitchen and gave him a small grin. She was holding a stack of mismatched plates as Fleur was setting them out one by one on the large table. Harry grinned and gave her a small wave. 

Harry and Ginny had not gotten back together after the Battle of Hogwarts. They tried at first, but something had shifted between them. Every kiss felt a little off, a little forced. Harry loved her, but somehow his feelings no longer seemed to go beyond friendship. Ginny confessed that she had been feeling similarly for some time, and they agreed to call off their relationship. It was a huge relief at the time, and now Harry felt a lot more comfortable around her and the rest of the family. Nothing to hide.

Looking around, Harry saw Bill and Mr. Weasley talking in the doorway while Hermione and Percy argued amicably over a book in the next room. Charlie was still out of the country, but Harry knew they would see him towards the end of the month. It was harder for him to meet weekly, but he managed to come back to the Burrow for a day or two at the end of every month.

The evening went on with lots of laughs and catching up. There were a few moments of quiet that would occasionally settle around the room between conversation in which Harry knew everyone was thinking about Fred. He noticed Mrs. Weasley look towards the magical clock sadly a few times throughout the evening. The clock hand with Fred’s picture had fallen off after his death, but Harry supposed it would be a long time before Mrs. Weasley stopped checking to see his whereabouts from habit. Harry felt an ache in his heart whenever this happened and would look down at his plate to hide the teariness of his eyes. 

Around seven thirty, everyone went into the living room for games and firewhiskies and butterbeers. Fleur delicately ran her hand over her round belly as Mrs. Weasley asked her about the names she and Bill had considered for the baby. Hermione asked Harry about his work and told him all about her new book she was writing. When George came through the floo, everyone greeted him with cheers and bade him come join them with a plate of leftovers. Ginny almost convinced him to let her rename his latest joke candy.

At nine-thirty, Harry reluctantly bade everyone goodnight and promised to see them next week before flooing to 12 Grimmauld Place. Stepping out into the dark, mostly empty house, Harry sighed heavily. He had had a good time with the Weasleys. He always did. He couldn’t deny that it was emotionally exhausting, however, and he was relatively glad to be back to a quiet space. It didn’t take long for him to wish he were anywhere else, however. This house seemed to suck him into a dark place every time he entered it, and despite his attempts at decorating, it felt cold and lifeless. 

Harry trudged up to his bedroom and kicked off his shoes. He undressed but left his clothes in a heap on the floor, pulling on a t-shirt and pajama bottoms before crawling into an oversized bed. He stared up at the ceiling and thought about how much he wished he were going back to Hogwarts this year. He knew he could still take up McGonagall’s offer to complete his seventh year now that the war had ended. There was really no reason for him to go back, though. He had already started working at what was supposed to be his dream job.

Tears started falling down Harry’s cheeks as he remembered all of his happy memories from Hogwarts. He felt homesick, and it angered him to know that he missed out on so much because of Voldemort and the war. Harry started to sob as he remembered the final battle and all the people who had died. He thought of Remus and Tonks and felt a pang of guilt realizing he had not gone to visit Teddy in over a month. He had a responsibility to him, and even though he knew Andromeda was taking good care of him, he was hit with a wave of self-loathing knowing that he was failing as a godfather. At some point, Harry drifted off into a half-sleep as he beat himself up over his mistakes and regrets.

He awoke with a start when he heard a tapping at his window. In his tired mind he thought _Hedwig?_ before remembering that she, too, was gone. With a sad huff, he sat up and looked out the window to see a large brown eagle owl sitting on the ledge outside. He got up, a bit bewildered, and opened the window to let him in. The owl did not come in, however, and simply held out the crumpled letter which he held tightly in one of his large talons. 

Harry was surprised to see that the letter was not secured to the owl’s foot, and as he took it, a chill went down his spine. The somewhat familiar-looking owl gave him an urgent hoot before taking back off into the night. _Who would send a letter at this time of night?_ Harry turned it over to see that it was not sealed, and warning signals went off in his head. _Something about this is not right,_ he thought anxiously. He slowly pulled out the letter and began to scan it.

The words “already know what I’ve done”, “follow me into the abyss”, and “suicide” jumped out at him. Harry’s eyes widened and he hurriedly looked for the name at the bottom of the letter. “Draco Lucius Malfoy”. 

He jumped into action, sending a patronus carrying a message to Kingsley, “THIS IS URGENT I NEED AN AUROR AT MALFOY MANOR IMMEDIATELY! MALFOY IS IN DANGER! HURRY!” It wasn’t until he had sent the patronus off that it occurred to him that he forgot to tell Kingsley what to expect when he got there, but Harry couldn’t think about that right now. He couldn’t think about Malfoy lying lifeless on the floor, he couldn’t think about blood flowing from his chest, he couldn’t think about _oh my god nonono Malfoy I didn’t mean it_ \- NO. Harry could not think about that. Harry ran down the stairs and out the door. Without a thought to whether or not any muggles could see him, he disapparated with a pop. 

The next thing he saw was the front of Malfoy Manor, looming above him like a dark fortress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time finding time to write this chapter. Please let me know if you notice any inconsistencies or spelling mistakes. I may have to start posting new chapters every other day instead of every day from now on.


	4. Draco's Attempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco notices that his letter is missing and makes a rash decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING:  
> In this chapter, Draco makes an attempt at suicide. Please, please, PLEASE do not read if you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, OR at least wait until I post the next few chapters.
> 
> SPOILER:  
> I should make it clear that this is only an attempt. Draco does not die at the end of this chapter.

When Draco woke up Friday afternoon, he didn’t immediately notice that anything was off. He was still caught in the memory of his most recent nightmare. He tried to put it out of his mind, but the memories came flooding back. He saw Granger laying on the floor as Bellatrix tortured her, heard her screams echo in his ears.

In reality, he had watched in idle horror as his own aunt cut deep scars into Granger’s arm, and he had just stood there, wishing he was somewhere else. But in Draco’s nightmare, he was helping. Helping Bellatrix, not Granger. He was  _ hurting _ Granger, and he was  _ enjoying it _ . 

In reality, Draco had hoped that somehow Potter and his friends would escape. He had complied with everything he was told to do, but he had done everything in his limited power to protect them. And then, after they had escaped the manor, Draco watched his parents being tortured with the cruciatus curse for their failure, for  _ his  _ failure. And then Draco was punished, too. But in Draco’s nightmare, the Dark Lord made him use the cruciatus curse on his own parents, and Draco did not hesitate. He  _ relished _ their pain.

Now that he was awake, Draco was filled with a pain that encompassed his whole body as his memories shifted between his nightmare and reality. Overwhelmed, he cried. It had been so long since he had been able to cry, and it almost felt good. He let out all of his fears and devastation and frustration and cried until his throat burned. 

It took Draco three hours to get out of bed. When he finally did, he didn’t immediately remember the letter he had finished the night before. He stumbled over to the desk and stared blankly at the rolls of blank parchment and empty well of ink next to his quill. Frowning, he sat down in his desk chair. He started searching for the letter so that he could continue working on it, looking underneath books and envelopes. Then he remembered that he had already finished. He remembered that he had put it in an envelope. But the letter wasn’t where he thought he had left it.

Draco stood up and looked around the room, a bit frustrated. It wasn’t underneath the desk. It wasn’t on his bedside table. It wasn’t on top of his dresser or on top of his bed. He frowned. It wasn’t underneath his bed or in any drawers.  _ It has to be in this room, _ he thought with irritation. He sat down on his bed to think about what he might have done with it. His blankets were still made up from the day before since he hadn’t gotten underneath them to sleep. 

He shivered, and his eyes were drawn to the window where a cool breeze had entered the room. Slowly, he started to put together the pieces. Draco rose and crossed the room to stand at the window. Looking out, he saw no sign of his owl or any parchment littering the ground.  _ Oh shit _ .

Draco knew that this was bad, really bad. He wasn’t ready yet, he hadn’t even  _ done it _ yet, and who knew how long it was before someone received the note. Before  _ Harry Potter _ received his note. Who knew how long it would take for Potter to show up at the manor or even send someone else. And when they got here and saw Draco, alive but very clearly unwell, with evidence in his  _ own handwriting _ of his intentions…

Draco’s blood ran cold. He knew what he had to do.

With more energy than he had been able to muster in weeks, Draco hurried to his armoire, dressed quickly into anything that wasn’t pajamas, and collected his wand from the drawer of his bedside table. He marched out of his bedroom and walked down the hall. He considered which room would be the most suitable for this.. task.. and decided on using the sitting room. He hurried down the stairs and kept his eyes on the floor in front of him, avoiding a fresh flood of memories and a breakdown. 

He made it to the door of the sitting room on the main floor, possibly the smallest room in the manor. Because of this it held the least painful memories and therefore the least distractions. Draco slowly approached the sofa and sat down. He looked at the rug on the floor and remembered playing with his favorite toys there as a child. He remembered his mother watching him with a warm smile from the armchair next to the fireplace. Draco’s heart seemed to melt just a little at the image in his mind, and for just a split second, he thought,  _ maybe I don’t have to do this. _

But then he hardened his face and his thoughts.  _ This is it.  _ Draco pulled the wand up to his temple and quietly but firmly said, “Avada Kedavra.”


	5. Try, Try Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: this chapter includes suicidal thoughts, suicide attempts, and thoughts of self-harm.

Nothing.

Not nothing as in  _ Draco was plunged into a void, a nothingness, and suddenly felt no pain, no joy, nothing. _

Nothing as in, nothing came out of Draco’s wand. There was no green flash of light, no explosion of magic. Nothing as in, Draco’s killing curse did  _ nothing _ .

He huffed with annoyance. He wasn’t all that surprised; this had happened before, after all. He remembered a painful day, back in the middle of the war. He had been forced to watch as Bellatrix cast the cruciatus curse on Lovegood and then made him try again and again to cast the curse on his classmate. But Draco didn’t have it in him. His aunt had slapped him hard across the face and spat at him, calling him  _ worthless _ . Draco was bothered less by this than by the silence that followed as Bellatrix left the dark dungeon which held the prisoners, and Lovegood reached out to touch Draco’s face softly. He backed away quickly but caught her sad eyes as she said, “Don’t worry. I know you are good, Draco.”

Draco had been shaken to the core by that exchange, and retreated to his bedroom. He had broken down into angry sobs, knowing that his own family hated him more than his enemies. He locked himself in his room and screamed into his pillow. Draco wished in that moment that he was dead more than he ever had before, and he made the decision to take control of his life for once. He looked in the mirror and tried to end his life with a whispered killing curse, but it was just as effective as his failed cruciatus curses from moments before. 

That was his first attempt. 

Draco shook himself from the memory, knowing he didn’t have enough time to think of times past. He needed to act quickly before Potter or any other aurors arrived. He chastised himself for foolishly thinking the least painful place would work for this. Draco knew better.

He rose and made his way to the dungeon. His thoughts were that this room would remind him how much he really hated himself, and that that would give him the necessary drive to end his own life. But, as he stood at the top of the stairs that led down to that cursed place, Draco could not make himself drag his feet forward. He was too afraid to face those demons. And maybe he was too afraid of what would happen if he was successful this time around.

Draco stood there for as long as he could before giving up. Turning away, he walked to each room of the large house, giving himself the time to soak in every painful memory before pulling his wand to his temple once more, mentally saying goodbye to his parents and this dreadful life. With each whispered  _ avada kedavra _ , Draco became more and more desperate. Yet with each failed attempt, Draco grew more and more anxious. Less and less sure.

Finally, he found himself back in his bedroom, staring out at the dark sky from his still open window. He sighed heavily. He knew that he wasn’t going to be able to pull off a magical death. He knew that he was going to need to resort to something much more painful. 

But Draco couldn’t muster up the courage or the energy to try anymore. A small part of him felt resigned to the fact that he would be caught soon. It was already half past nine o’clock, and he was sure that his owl had long since made his delivery. Despite his faint hope that Herodius had simply stolen the letter to nibble in his beak or turn into some sort of odd nest, Draco somehow knew that wasn’t true. Herodius had always been rather smart for a bird.

Draco looked up at the moon. Time was running out quickly, but Draco didn’t know what to do. He resented himself for writing a bloody letter and leaving it in an envelope atop his desk, no less. His end was supposed to be on his terms, and he had just thrown that away. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

Draco supposed he still had time to transfigure a quill into a razor, push it deep into his wrists. He traced a finger over his Dark Mark. He longed to cut it out of his skin. Draco’s stomach churned at the thought of blood pouring out of his arms, but the idea of finally being rid of that soul-stealing black atrocity on his body was tempting. Compelling. 

Draco walked to his desk and sat down gingerly. He picked up his favorite quill, plumed with a white peacock feather, and touched his wand to it gently. He thought of all the letters he had written to Mother with this quill. He thought of all the essays and assignments he had used this quill to write in school. He thought of all the unfinished, crumpled up notes he had scratched out to Potter with this quill. It seemed irrational, but Draco felt suddenly very emotional.  _ It’s not like I’ll need it after this, _ he assured himself. 

He took a deep breath. Again, he tapped his wand to the quill and tried to remember the right spell. He sat there staring at it for what felt like hours trying to think of the spell. He had done it before. He had taught himself to do it and had successfully pulled it off not even two days ago. He had practiced it, just in case…

Draco growled in anger.  _ Why can’t anything fucking go right? _

At that moment, Harry Potter arrived outside the door of Draco’s prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy heck this chapter hurt to write! I hope it turned out okay; I have sick-brain so I may have made some grammar errors in there. I appreciate spelling corrections and constructive criticism.  
> My heart hurts for Draco. I was debating on whether to write two endings, one where Draco lives and one where he doesn't, but I think right now it might hurt me too much to write his death. Let me know, though, if you would be interested in a sad ending to this story.  
> Also! I probably wont be able to post again until tuesday this time, but I should be able to pick back up with new chapters every other day after that :)


	6. A Figure In a Dark Room

Harry’s heart was hammering inside his chest. He felt frozen, staring at Malfoy Manor. His memories of this place were dark, and he had wished he would never need to return. Yet here he was. 

That night towards the end of the war, Harry had lost yet another friend. He remembered Dobby saving them, sacrificing his life for Harry and Ron and  _ Hermione _ \- oh, Hermione. He remembered listening to her screams, unable to help her, unable to take away her pain. He remembered the writing on her arm.  _ Mudblood _ . He remembered wanting to kill Bellatrix, wanting to kill the Malfoys, wanting to die rather than listen to Hermione’s pain. He remembered Luna steadying him, he remembered steadying Ron. He remembered escaping. 

Then he remembered Draco Malfoy.

Harry ran up to the door, blowing it off its hinges with a spell. He should have checked for wards first, but Harry didn’t care. He ran head-on into the giant mansion and started screaming, “Malfoy! MALFOY!”

He halted in the grand entrance. Harry had no idea where Malfoy would be. He began pacing, trying to remember a spell,  _ what was that spell was it hom- _ “HOMENUM REVELIO!”

He felt a tug of magic pulling at him, and looked up to see that there was something, someone, upstairs. He sprinted up the staircase, keeping his eyes trained on the white human-shaped mass of light that he knew had to be Malfoy. He didn’t allow himself to think about what the shape was doing or why it wasn’t moving. He just ran straight towards it, adrenaline fueling every step down the long corridor towards a door. A door. 

He stopped in front of it. He was breathing hard, probably too hard, and fast. He felt something cold and wet on his forehead and when he reached out to the doorknob, he saw his hand shake before meeting with metal. Harry didn’t know what would be behind this door. His brain was telling him that he did know what he was going to find and that he shouldn’t open this door and that he should get out of there now because this couldn’t be happening and it shouldn’t be happening and it wouldn’t be happening if Harry would just go back home right now. But Harry had this tiny hope that he was wrong.

That tiny hope gave him the strength to slowly push open the door. 

And his breath caught in his throat. 

A single beam of moonlight illuminated Draco Malfoy’s figure, slouched over in an ornate-looking wooden desk chair, head resting atop his arms.  _ Is he breathing?  _ Harry was too far from him. He tried to say something but felt a chill run down his spine when his voice came out as nothing more than a breath. 

Harry cautiously took a step forward into the room and tried again, “Malfoy?”

Harry jumped when Malfoy spoke weakly, “Get out”. He still hadn’t moved, but Harry was sure it had come from the direction of Malfoy’s body. Relief washed over Harry, and he felt confident enough to take several more steps towards him. 

Harry stopped a few feet short and cleared his throat. “Malfoy,” he said again in a more demanding tone.

Finally he saw Malfoy move as he took a deep breath and let out a huff of annoyance. “I guess that means you’re not leaving,” he said quietly and irritably. Harry relaxed, finally letting himself believe that he was alive. He reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“I need your wand,” He said softly. 

Malfoy sat up and turned in his chair to face Harry. A pained look in his eyes, he studied Harry for a long time, before slowly putting his wand into Harry’s outstretched hand. Once Harry pocketed it, he saw Malfoy’s eyes close tight and his shoulder relaxed as he let out a deep breath.

“Kingsley will be here soon,” Harry said. “You’re going to have to answer some questions.”

At that, Malfoy’s eyes flew open. “I didn’t do anything illegal,” he said defiantly.

“It’s just for your safety,” Harry said stiffly.

Malfoy scoffed and laid his head back down on his arms. Harry removed his hand and took a step back but didn’t take his eyes off of Malfoy’s back. Even though Malfoy no longer had his wand, Harry couldn’t leave him alone until more help arrived. It was protocol. They waited like that until Kingsley made his way up to them.

He eyed Harry with worry and a hint of anger, and Harry realized that he had broken a lot of rules in the past hour, entering the manor alone being the most dangerous one. Harry didn’t care, though, and shrugged. “Want to tell me what’s going on?” Kingsley said, his wand pointed at Malfoy. 

Malfoy didn’t look up or move, so Harry handed Malfoy’s wand to Kingsley and said, “I received a letter from Malfoy that he was going to-” Harry was surprised to find his voice catch in his throat. He looked at Malfoy again, then back at Kingsley, then decided against finishing his sentence. He pulled the letter out of his pocket and handed it to Kingsley, who skimmed over it quickly. 

“I see,” he said slowly. He raised his eyebrows in surprise when he got down towards the end of the letter, and Harry frowned, realizing he hadn’t actually read the whole thing. Kingsley gave him a weary look before speaking to Malfoy, “Draco Malfoy, stand up please.”

Malfoy stood slowly and turned to face them. Harry noticed then that Malfoy looked significantly thinner than the last time he had seen him, and his clothes hanged loosely off his body. This came as a surprise as Malfoy had always seemed to fit everything he wore perfectly. Harry frowned in confusion and mild embarrassment at the thought. 

Kingsley began asking him questions and casting charms on him to check for injuries and curses and all that sort of thing. Harry didn’t pay much attention until Kingsley said, “Are you experiencing suicidal thoughts?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said quietly but not without a note of irritation as he rolled his eyes.

“Have you made any attempts to self harm or end your life?” Kingsley’s deep voice continued without emotion.

Malfoy made eye contact with Harry before flushing and looking down as he whispered, “Yes.” A chill went down Harry’s back.

“Do you possess any muggle weapons or any wands that we are not aware of?” Kingsley asked.

“No,” Malfoy looked regretful at this statement, and Harry wondered why. 

“Do you have a hist-” Kingsley began but Malfoy interrupted.

“Can I sit down?” He said it so angrily and defensively, but Harry noted that his knees were shaking.

Kingsley simply nodded towards the bed. Malfoy went to sit down and Kingsley pulled the desk chair closer so that he could sit as well. Harry felt awkward standing in the middle of the room and transfigured a chair for himself. He wanted to ask Kingsley for the letter so that he could read the rest, but he knew that now wasn’t the time. Kingsley asked Malfoy a few more questions before taking a deep breath.

Kingsley began to explain, “It’s clear that you need to be hospitalized. You will need to be moved to Saint Mungo's mental health ward-”

At this moment he was cut off immediately by both Malfoy and Harry. Malfoy simply said, “Fat chance!” while Harry said, “You can’t send him there! That place treats mental health like insanity!” 

Kingsley shot Harry a look that said he was overstepping and Harry quieted temporarily. Kingsley continued, “OR we will need to have a qualified healer come here to Malfoy Manor to watch you. Seeing as how you’re on house arrest, the latter option will have to do. However, it will be difficult to find a healer who is willing to care for someone with your past, Mr. Malfoy.” At this, Malfoy flinched and a look of guilt crossed his face. 

“So, what does that mean then?” Harry asked him.

“It means that you are going to sit with Mr. Malfoy while I go send some owls and find a healer who is available.” He stood up and walked out the door. After a few moments Harry heard a faint pop from outside the window which indicated that Kingsley had disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took so long! i had written it out but i needed help editing it. hope you like it! c:


	7. A Couple of Idiots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry can't resist arguing.

“Well, he’s a ball of sunshine,” Malfoy muttered sarcastically. He wasn’t looking at Harry, but if he had been he would have seen the corner of Harry’s lips twitch upwards at the unexpected humor. 

Malfoy moved to lay down on his bed and looked at Harry, who was feeling awkward in his old rival’s bedroom. He looked down at his pajamas and flushed, realizing that he wasn’t looking very official at the moment. Malfoy on the other hand was dressed fairly well in a grey turtleneck sweater and black trousers with dress shoes. Harry felt out of place in his own red pajama bottoms and an old black t-shirt with holes in odd places. 

Malfoy glared at him in silence for a moment before saying to the ceiling, “I guess you have some questions.”

“About what?” Harry asked, hoping Malfoy didn’t mean suicide. Harry didn’t need to be told how tempting it was to imagine a painless end to the monotony and suffering that accompanied existence. 

Malfoy answered, “About the letter.” He seemed to be avoiding eye contact. Harry realized that Malfoy was just as uncomfortable as himself, if not more so.

“Oh I erm.. I didn’t actually read the whole thing,” Harry stuttered, a bit embarrassed to be giving away his mistake. He didn’t like being out of the loop, even if it was no one’s fault but his own.

“Oh,” was all Malfoy said. Harry shifted on the uneven chair he had transfigured, making a mental note to practice his transfiguration spells later. Malfoy watched Harry as he abandoned his seat for the desk chair and attempted to get more comfortable. Harry didn’t like the attention that he was being given, so he decided to look around the room. It was relatively large for a bedroom, although no bigger than the boys dormitory Harry had shared while at Hogwarts. There were several matching pieces of dark wood furniture pushed against the walls including an armoire, a dresser, the desk, a bedside table, and the bed. Behind him, there were two stiff-looking armchairs in front of the fireplace.

Malfoy spoke up again, “So.. what part did you read?” He sounded a bit anxious, but his face only showed a look of mild curiosity as he regarded Harry.

“Erm,” Harry wished Malfoy would drop it, but he was also curious to see how much Malfoy might tell him. “Just the beginning part and your name at the bottom.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, not missing the obvious way in which Harry avoided saying the words he had read. “So just the part about me committing suicide, then.” 

Harry flustered, and not knowing why, he said, “Don’t  _ call _ it that.”

There was definitely irritation in Malfoy’s tone when he shot back, “Why not? That’s what it is.” 

Harry balmed and looked away. He had to count to ten to keep his heart rate from going up too high as he tried to settle his nerves. Harry wasn’t naive. He knew that he was not the only one who had considered an easier way out. It just bothered him to hear other people want it, too. 

Ever since the battle, when Harry had walked down into the Forbidden Forest to face Voldemort, he had been overly paranoid he would lose someone he loved by their own hand. He knew that it wouldn’t be a long shot. Everyone he knew had lost  _ someone _ in the war, and Harry had known too much grief in his lifetime to write it off. He constantly worried for the Weasleys and made sure to check in on Ron and Hermoine everyday. He knew that they had a lot to live for. But Harry also knew that it wasn’t hard to become convinced that death was the best way after losing a friend or family member. 

He had never considered, however, that the person he might be losing was someone that hated him. The thought of Malfoy experiencing suicidal thoughts wasn’t surprising logically. Harry knew that Malfoy had been through a lot of horrible shit and he knew that Malfoy had also lost a friend in the battle. He knew that Malfoy’s life wasn’t looking up, either, with his parents in Azkaban and himself stuck in Malfoy Manor on house arrest, branded forever as a Death Eater and war criminal. 

But Harry accepted long ago that Malfoy was just trying to survive. And now Malfoy wanted anything but that. 

Harry was interrupted from his thoughts when he heard a soft hoot from the window. He looked up to see the same eagle owl from a few hours before flying in from outside and landing softly on the owl post next to the desk. Malfoy sat up and held out his arm, letting the owl fly over to him. As Malfoy petted his feathers, he glared at the bird on his arm. “You prick,” he muttered. Harry frowned at the display of affection coupled with the obvious discontent. He wasn’t going to say anything, he really wasn’t, but then Malfoy looked at him and said, “Problem?”

“Why does it feel like you never thank anyone for helping you?” Harry heard himself ask with more confidence than he felt. 

“Helping me? What, by stealing my unfinished letters and delivering them to the most annoying people to ever exist?” Malfoy scoffed, and the owl bit him on the finger before flying back to the owl post to preen his feathers. Malfoy shook his hand in annoyance while Harry considered what he had just said, ignoring the insult.

“What do you mean by that?” He asked, wondering why on earth someone would sign an unfinished letter.

“I didn’t give it to him, Potter. Isn’t that what ‘stealing’ means?” Draco was clearly feeling more like his old self, Harry though absently. His sarcasm insufferable, but Harry needed to know. 

“Why would you sign it and put it in an envelope if it wasn’t done?” Harry challenged.

“I was going to revise it, dumbass. But I guess you don’t know anything about that since you do everything  _ perfectly _ the first time around,” Malfoy spat. 

Harry rolled his eyes. Malfoy was just as bad as he was during school, and for just a moment, Harry forgot the anxiety he felt over the whole situation. This was familiar ground. He could handle insults and stabs at intelligence. 

“So your owl just picked up your half-assed letter and delivered it to me without you telling him to then?” Harry said with disbelief. He couldn’t remember Hedwig ever wanting to deliver a letter so much that she took any piece of parchment off his desk. 

“Well tell me this, dimwit, why do you think I was still alive by the time you got here?” As soon as Malfoy said it, a look of regret washed over his face. The energy of their quarrel halted and the room filled with a tangible silence as Harry took in the implications of the question.

Harry and Malfoy stared at each other for a while. The air fell heavy around them and neither spoke. Harry noticed the bags under Malfoy’s eyes and wondered when was the last time he had eaten or slept but didn’t dare to ask. 

Neither of them looked away until Harry shivered from the cold and got up to close the window. He wished he had at least put on a sweater before leaving the warmth of Sirius’ place earlier. Kreacher had been making more of an effort to make the place hospitable since Harry had started living there, and even though it was still a dark and unhappy place, Harry usually felt comfortable enough to sleep without catching cold. 

“Mind if I light the fire?” Harry said towards Malfoy without actually making eye contact. Malfoy grunted in response, and Harry took that as indifference as he walked across the room to the fireplace. He crouched down and cast a quiet  _ incendio _ before turning to sit in one of the armchairs. He knew he could use a warming spell, but he much preferred the way fire felt close to his skin. It might help, too, if Kingsley needed to speak with them via floo. 

After a while, Malfoy walked over and sat in the other chair. Harry chose not to acknowledge it, and they sat in silence until Harry felt his eyelids grow heavy.  _ I’ll just close them for a minute _ , he thought, and quite unintentionally dozed off into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i couldn't resist posting this chapter early. should have the next one ready on the 13th :)


	8. One Last Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco contemplates his options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Content Warning***  
> This chapter contains suicidal ideation.

Draco was surprised when he looked over at Potter and saw that he was asleep. His first thought was that Potter really wasn’t very good at Auror work if he let his guard down that easily. But as Draco watched him through tired eyes, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit of warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the crackling flames in front of him. He studied Potter’s face, noticing how sleep softened his angular jawline and dark eyelids. Draco longed to feel the smoothness of Potter’s cheek against his fingertips.

Then Draco reminded himself that Potter was not his to touch, and his heart ached. His heart belonged to the Weasley girl. He cursed himself for all the chances he had squandered over the years to get closer to Potter. He had struggled for so long to accept it himself that by the time he was ready to confess his feelings, they were on opposite sides of a war. The best Draco could do then was stay as far away from Potter and his friends as possible, hoping to avoid a choice between death and something worse. 

He cringed as he remembered the letter that had brought Potter here. Of all the moments to confess feelings for someone, right before taking your own life had to be the worst. Draco hoped that Potter would not get a chance to read his confession of love. He hoped that it would be locked away as evidence or, better yet, lost or destroyed. 

Draco watched the fire as he wondered what would happen to him. The Head Auror that had been here before, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was looking for an available healer. Someone who would be willing to care for a suicidal former Death Eater. Somehow, Draco doubted the likelihood that Shacklebolt would be able to find anyone. But what would that mean for him, then? Draco considered the possibility that he might be hospitalized at St. Mungo’s and shivered. That was the last place he wanted to be.

Saint Mungo’s wasn’t a bad hospital. In fact, it was the best in wizarding Britain, or so he had been told. But Draco also heard from Pansy about the poor treatment of several pureblood families following the battle of Hogwarts. Even children who were not actively fighting in the war were discriminated against because of their parents’ alignment.

And then there was that comment that Potter had made about St. Mungo’s treating mental health as “insanity”. Draco, personally, wasn’t sure what the difference was. He had been raised to look down upon people who were not of sound mind. He remembered his father telling him how pitiful one of his colleagues was, how weak he was for seeking therapy after the unexpected death of his wife. Draco had blindly agreed and adopted the view that anyone who could not function mentally was unfit for society.

Draco did not see his suicidal tendencies as insane, however. That, at least, made sense, even if it did mean that he was one of the weak. Draco had made too many mistakes, and regardless of how he felt about it, he deserved to be brought to justice. It just so happened that he was of the opinion that justice meant death. And if Draco had to be the judge, jury, and executioner, well then he might as well do the world a favor. 

The thing that bothered Draco most about being labelled “insane” was that a small part of him agreed. He knew somewhere deep down that sane people don’t want to die. Sane people don’t make arrangements for after they have passed by their own hand. Sane people don’t lift a wand to their temple and whisper the killing curse repeatedly to the point of exhaustion. 

Draco supposed that the small part of him that knew these things was the reason his curses never worked. Despite his efforts to squash that tiny voice of reason inside his head, each attempt had been completely ineffective. Draco often tried to convince himself that it was cowardice or weakness that hindered his success, but somehow he knew. He knew that this wasn’t right.

Knowing that he needed help and admitting it were two different things, however, and Draco was terrified of the prospect of having to accept help from a healer. It wasn’t just the prejudice he was sure he would encounter that intimidated Draco. It was also the thought of letting himself be saved. It was mainly the realization that he would be forced to survive despite his reluctance to do so. 

Potter made a soft snoring sound, bringing Draco’s attention back to him. Potter was snoozing peacefully, unaware of the turmoil that Draco felt each time he looked at him. As Draco watched Potter’s chest rise and fall softly, he thought of Potter’s reaction earlier to his state of mind. The word suicide seemed to agitate him, but not in the way one might expect. Despite their history, Potter seemed  _ genuinely _ worried for him. Draco was surprised to see anyone become unsettled by the thought of his death, let alone Potter. 

Potter, the boy that Draco had made it his solemn duty to antagonize. Potter, the boy who had been rightly convinced for years that Draco was evil. Potter, the boy who had rejected him, spied on him, attacked him, stolen his wand in the middle of a war.

Potter, the boy who had saved his life, time and time again.

Harry, the boy he had fallen in love with right in the middle of all of it. 

Harry, the boy who, despite wanting Draco to live, had mercifully given him  _ one more chance _ to take his life into his own hands. Draco didn’t know if Harry had meant to fall asleep or not, but he did know that if he was going to escape a future of - well, a future - then now was his last chance. It wouldn’t be difficult. A fall from his window would likely do the trick, and Draco would never have to face the consequences.

But Harry would. And now that Draco knew that Harry cared, even just a little, for his safety… Draco couldn’t let his last act on earth be another betrayal. Not now. 

With a sigh, Draco settled further into the armchair and let his last chance pass by, letting that tiny voice in his head soothe him into a calm that he had not felt in years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is okay. Due to my work schedule this weekend I may have some difficulty getting the next chapter out on Sunday, but I will do my very best. Thanks again to everyone for leaving comments and kudos! It means a lot to see that other people are enjoying this fic :)  
> I have decided that this fic is going to end happily (eventually) but I am still hoping to write an alternate sad ending as a separate work. It may take me a while to get it written but I promise to keep you all updated on my progress :)


	9. Harry Fucked Up A Bit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry faces consequences for his not-so-great Auror work.

Harry woke with a start at the sound of a deep, commanding voice shouting his name. He looked directly into the fireplace where Kingsley Shacklebolt’s disembodied head floated in the flames, anger evident in his eyes. Harry sat up straight and flushed, mortified.

“Sir I-” he began.

“We’ll address this later,” Kingsley cut him off. “I have been in contact with several healers from Saint Mungo’s. There is one by the name of Tara Scott who will be available at 6 AM to begin watching and working with Mr. Malfoy. Until then, I am appointing a different Auror to supervise you.” He said the last sentence to Malfoy, who was listening warily from the armchair next to Harry. 

“Who..?” Malfoy almost whispered.

“Nicholas Banks,” Kingsley answered calmly. Harry tried to remember if he had met him before but couldn’t put a face with the name. Kingsley looked back at him and said, “Upon his arrival you shall report to me immediately, Potter.”

Harry winced at the use of his last name, suspecting a less than friendly chat awaiting him. He nodded his head once and watched as Kingsley’s head disappeared from the fireplace. Harry’s heart sank as he realized that he was likely going to go home without a job. This wasn’t the first mistake he had made since becoming an Auror, but it was definitely one of the worst. 

He looked over at Malfoy and realized with a jolt how easily he could have taken advantage of Harry’s unconsciousness. He still had Malfoy’s wand in his pocket; he could feel the weight of it against his leg. He frowned at him, wondering what had stopped Malfoy from taking back his wand. With Harry asleep, there was nothing keeping Malfoy safe from himself, and he knew that. So why did he stay?

Malfoy wasn’t looking at him, instead staring into the dying flames. He looked mournful in the faint light. Harry wondered what it was like for him, being in this position. Even though he had also experienced thoughts of suicide, it had never gotten to the point of having the control over his decisions taken from him. He tried to tell himself that this was what was best for Malfoy, but a small part of him felt bad for him. He squashed that part of him down and told it to shut up. After all, this was _Malfoy_ , not Ron or Hermione. 

Harry and Malfoy sat in silence until Banks arrived. When he entered the room, Harry recognized him as one of the chatty Aurors during meetings. He was a middle-aged man with receding black hair. He didn’t say much to Harry as he gave the older man Malfoy’s wand. Banks didn’t even comment on Harry’s state of dress, for which he was immensely grateful.

Before leaving the room, Harry looked back at Malfoy, who was still watching the fire gloomily. Harry felt a twinge of guilt that he couldn’t quite explain before turning to the door and slowly making his way out of the manor. He tried to keep his mind blank as he walked through the haunted rooms. He was tired, and already the anxiety about his meeting with Kingsley was building inside of him. He had no room for memories and unwanted thoughts of the past. 

He apparated outside the ministry building and made his way inside. He walked in a daze, thinking of what he would do if he was fired. Only three months in, and Harry had already managed to lose his dream job. What in the world was he going to do with his time? He couldn’t be left on his own with no purpose. He just couldn’t. 

When he made it to the Auror Department, he nodded his head in greeting to the few night-shift aurors who sat sleepily at their desks doing paperwork. There were seldom any calls at this hour, so most nights the Aurors’ hardest job was staying awake as they filed away reports. He walked up to Kingsley’s office and hesitated before knocking lightly on the closed door. 

“Come in,” he heard Kingsley say from inside, and Harry opened the door slowly. When Kingsley looked up at him from his desk, he motioned for Harry to sit in the chair opposite. Harry did so and met his furious eyes with a look of apology. He dared not speak until Kingsley said his piece. 

“Potter, you can’t expect me to overlook the violations of protocol you blatantly ignored in the past few hours. First, you showed up to a suspected crime scene while off-duty, barged in with no back-up or _any_ regard to your own safety, and then _fell asleep_ while not only on the job but also in a room with a former Death Eater. You are lucky to still be alive. How do you know that letter was not just a trap to lure you in? For all your experience with dangerous situations, your actions tonight make it clear that you are either too oblivious or just too indifferent to account for your own safety.” 

Kingsley looked livid, but everything he had said was true. Harry hadn’t realized that the letter could have been a ruse, and suddenly he felt extremely incompetant. Kingsley must have seen this on his face because he tiredly rubbed his eyes and softened his voice when he said, “Harry, you are one of my best Aurors when it comes to jumping into action. But you can’t just run in without considering all the possibilities. No amount of training is going to teach you that.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and built up enough courage to say, “This job means everything to me, Kingsley. I understand that you have to do what you have to do, but-” He took a shaky breath. “I’ll do anything to stay on. I’ll do paperwork for months. I just can’t lose this job.” 

Kingsley looked regretful for a moment, then said, “I’m going to give you another chance, Harry. But you can’t walk away from this without a suspension. I’ll see you in two weeks.” With that Kingsley shooed a solemn but relieved Harry Potter out of his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lateness of this chapter. This weekend has been crazy busy for me. I work two jobs and haven't had enough time to write and edit until pretty much yesterday. It also doesn't help that I had several different versions of what would happen at this point in the story in my head. I'm going to get a head start on the next few chapter so I can auto upload them on the days that they are scheduled for. Thanks again for your patience and I hope you all enjoy this story as much as I do.


	10. The Wee Hours

Draco didn’t think there was anyone more annoying than Harry Potter until he met Auror Nicholas Banks. As soon as Potter left the manor, Banks sat down in the chair next to Draco and started trying to have a conversation with him.

“Alright?” he had asked with a concerned look.

Draco simply ignored him, watching the way the fire ate away at the wood. It was still burning, but it was getting close to dying out. He didn’t bother to point this out, and he didn’t care enough to replace the log himself. 

Banks kept talking anyway, “I’m Nick. I’m an Auror from the ministry, though I’m sure Kingsley already told you all that. I guess it's my duty to keep watch over you until your Healer arrives in the morning. So that makes it about… three hours from now? Boy, it’s late... 

“My sister had to be hospitalized once. She was pretty much dealing with the same thoughts as you probably are right now. She actually gave it a go, but my dad found her and took her to Saint Mungos. She hated it, if I’m honest with you. They would only let me visit her twice a week, which I always thought was odd considering how the muggle doctors are always saying that spending time with family is supposed to help. Anyway, that was five years ago. She’s much better now.

“Her daughter is at Hogwarts, you know. She might even remember you. She’s in Ravenclaw, though, starting her third year soon. It’s crazy how fast that happened. It feels like only a year or two ago that she was a tiny bundle in my arms. But you know how that is.” He laughed as if this was an inside joke between the two of them. Draco rolled his eyes but still didn’t look at the man. Hopefully he would tire himself out and leave him alone. 

Banks finally seemed to notice the dwindling fire and set to work putting on some new logs. While he worked, he continued, “Little Susie was actually born in a muggle hospital, can you believe it? Yeah, her dad - my brother-in-law - is a wizard but he is muggle-born, see, and he’s a doctor. He always said that wizarding hospitals are a bit behind the times. 

“Luckily, you aren’t going to have to go to Saint Mungos. They do alright, but I haven’t heard great things about their psych ward. Tara’s great, though. She was a Healer there when my sister was admitted, and she still checks in on her from time to time. I think she works separately from the hospital now.”

He clapped his hands together as he sat back down. Draco resented him for being so cheerful and bubbly. He still refused to look at Banks, but he could sense that the man was sorting a wide grin of satisfaction from rekindling the fire. Draco rolled his eyes. 

Banks carried on, “I was surprised to see Harry Potter here. He mostly works daytime shifts, and I’m more of a night owl. I guess that’s why he wasn’t in uniform. It’s a bit odd to see someone like Harry Potter in pajamas, though… I was too nervous to say anything but.. you don’t think I should’ve asked for his autograph, do you?”

“Are you  _ fucking _ serious?” Draco finally snapped, waking Herodius and eliciting an impatient hoot. A blabbering idiot was one thing, but one of Potter’s fanboys? Still not looking at Banks, Draco rose from his chair and crossed the room to his bed. He climbed underneath the covers, pulling them over his head, and hoped the moronic buffoon would shut up.

He didn’t hear anything for a while, but then Banks continued to talk to himself about the most mundane of topics. Draco cursed Potter for leaving him here with such an incompetant fool, cursed Shcklebolt and the whole Auror department for hiring imbeciles, and cursed himself for being around to put up with it. If Tara Scott was half as talkative as Banks was, Malfoy might just end up fleeing the manor, house arrest wards be damned. Getting splinched was better than this conversation. 

*********

Harry laid awake in his bed at Grimmauld Place wondering if the events of the past six hours had been anything more than a dream. He couldn’t believe any of it. First the letter, which he was still curious about, never having read the whole thing. Then, his conversation with Malfoy. And finally, being placed on a suspension. 

Harry was still very grateful to have been able to keep his job, but he didn’t much like the idea of being suspended from working either. His job was what kept his mind busy. Harry had no idea how he was going to stay occupied in the next few weeks. Maybe he would help Hermione with her book, he thought, or help George out with Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Harry doubted it, though.

His thoughts drifted back to what Malfoy had said earlier about still being alive when Harry got there. Initially, Harry had been too shocked by the implication to question it. Now, however, he wondered how much truth there was in Malfoy’s words. He seemed to be expecting Harry when he arrived at the manor, based on his dress for the time of day. If he really had no intention of sending the letter, how long had it taken him to realize it was gone? And once he did, why did he allow himself to be saved? He certainly had enough time to…

Harry reasoned that Malfoy may not have been prepared to go all the way with his plan. As he said before, he had meant to revise his note. Why then, having had his hand forced, did he not flee the manor if he really didn’t want help? Harry realized that that probably had a lot to do with the spells keeping him here on ministry house arrest.

He didn’t think it was likely that the letter was fake. Malfoy’s actions definitely signaled a cry for help, despite his apparent dislike of the idea. Although, Harry realized that he never actually heard Malfoy _ say _ he didn’t want help. He seemed resigned rather than irritable when Kingsley announced that a Healer was available. 

Even though a part of him still hated Malfoy for his childhood bullying, Harry couldn’t help but worry for him. The likelihood that Malfoy would get assigned a Healer that he clicked with on the first try was slim. Harry only hoped that Draco would not have to resort to Saint Mungos. The mental health ward there left much to be desired, and with the influx of new patients after the war, their resources had become stretched thin. Malfoy wouldn’t receive appropriate treatment there.

Thinking over the events of the night, Harry felt a pang of guilt as he recalled falling asleep. He was tired, true, but that did not excuse the danger he put Malfoy in by letting down his guard. What if Malfoy had noticed him sleeping and taken back his wand? What if he had no longer been alive when Harry woke up? Harry shivered, but not from the cold.

And then there was that thing Kingsley pointed out about how the whole thing could have been a trap. How ironic would it have been for Harry to have survived and defeated Voldemort just to be murdered by Malfoy a few months after the war had ended? Harry didn’t put much stock into this, however. He didn’t feel as guilty over risking his own life, just the lives of others. He knew he had been right to take the note seriously, despite the threat of deception.

Harry didn’t know what he would do if he had taken all the necessary precautions only to find that he was too late to save Malfoy from himself.


	11. Tara Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco meets his Healer

Draco slipped in and out of a half-sleep during the last hour before his Healer arrived at the Manor. When she finally showed up, he was grateful. Anything to get rid of the tiresome Auror Banks, who was still monologuing by the time Ms. Tara Scott got there. He said sort of an awkward goodbye to Draco before shuffling out the door. Draco hoped he would never see him again. 

Tara Scott was younger than Draco expected, appearing to be in her mid-thirties. She was of average height with a short black bob that made Draco think of Pansy Parkinson. She approached him as he sat on the bed and gently offered a handshake. Draco stood and shook her hand, looking at her face but not quite meeting her eye.

“My name’s Tara Scott,” she said. “I’m told you’re Draco Malfoy?”

Draco simply nodded and mumbled, “Pleasure.”

“I’m a Home Healer. Currently I’ve been asked by the Ministry to offer therapeutic services to you at your home in place of sending you to Saint Mungo’s to be hospitalized. You won’t be required to pay for these services, only to try your best to take advantage of them. The harder you work with me and the more improvement you show, the less time I will be required to stay here with you. That being said, I am always available for voluntary psychotherapy after you have been cleared by the ministry.

“Do you have any questions so far?” She asked. Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact. It made Draco feel for the first time like someone else understood, and for some reason he felt he could trust her almost immediately. Maybe it wasn’t just her tone of voice.

Draco could think of a lot of things he  _ should _ ask, but he couldn’t be bothered to say anything, so he simply shook his head. He hoped Tara.. Ms. Scott?.. would answer his questions on her own.

“How about I start by sort of explaining how this will work?” She said with a small smile, as if asking permission. Draco found this odd.  _ It’s not like I have any choice, _ he thought bitterly. Outwardly, he simply nodded.

Tara smiled a little brighter and began, “There will be certain charms I will need to place on the property to prevent you from causing any harm to yourself. After these are up, you will be able to have your wand back-“

“My wand?!” Draco interrupted in surprise. He had assumed it was viewed as too dangerous and that he wouldn’t be getting it back at all after Potter took it from him.

“Of course, Mr. Malfoy. Can I call you Draco?” She asked, probably sensing the unease that being called  _ Mr. Malfoy _ caused him.

“That would be… preferable,” he admitted. He disliked being reminded of his family name now. He especially disliked being reminded of his father. “And may I…”

“Tara is fine,” she confirmed with a kind smile. Draco felt relieved that this introductory part of the conversation was over. He relaxed a bit as she continued. “For the most part things will go on the way they normally would. Of course, we’ll start working on a more structured schedule than what you might be used to. We’ll have three meals each day and tea in the afternoons, and while I won’t force you to eat I will highly encourage it. I’m guessing you are having trouble eating now?”

Draco didn’t answer. He had to look away to keep from glaring at her. Food was a touchy subject for him.

She went on, “We’ll have times separate from meals to check in on your emotions and thoughts. We’re also going to focus on getting you outside and hopefully doing more of the things you enjoy. But we’ll go over everything in further detail later on. 

“For now, I’m going to start working on the protective charms and then at eight we will have breakfast. You can use this time to rest before we start the day.” Tara waited to see if Draco had any questions before setting to work. She started whispering incantations and waving her wand around the room. After she finished with Draco’s bedroom, she went on to the next room in the large house. 

When Tara had gone, Draco let out a deep sigh and fell back on his bed, closing his eyes and hoping the world would just go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is a bit short. hope you like it!


	12. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Content Warning***  
> Mentions of suicidality and implied eating disorder.  
> I am not a mental health professional. The interactions between Draco and Tara are solely based on personal experience working with therapists.

Tara had spread out an assortment of breakfast foods between them on the small table. This room, near the kitchen, was smaller and cozier than the dining room, where Draco’s family typically hosted dinner for guests - or meetings for the Death Eaters. Morning light came in through the large window to his right, begging him to stare out at the sky instead of focusing on the task at hand. Instead, Draco stared at the muffins, toast, bagels, and eggs on the table, and felt an urge to throw up.

Tara watched him carefully, and said, “You don’t have to eat everything. Just take what looks most appetizing. I think I’ll have a muffin.” She took one from the plate between them and began to spread warm butter over it, taking her eyes away from Draco.

Draco eyed the eggs warily before taking a single piece of toast. He watched Tara put down the butter knife, and it occurred to him that his toast might need some butter as well. He applied a liberal amount of butter, then took a careful bite. It stuck in his throat a bit as he swallowed, and he grimaced. 

“Would you like some jam?” Tara offered, holding a small jar of what looked to be strawberry jam. Draco shook his head and took a sip of water. He stared at the cup in his hands, lost in incoherent thoughts. 

Tara took a sip of her coffee then pulled Draco out of his thoughts by asking, “Do you find breakfast difficult?”

Draco looked up at her and couldn’t find an answer immediately. Tara’s expression was soft, and despite his better judgment, Draco felt himself trusting her. Quietly, he said, “I find food difficult.”

Tara nodded. “I can understand that. Have you always struggled with eating or is this a recent development?”

Draco wasn’t sure what she meant. He couldn’t think of a time when he didn’t struggle to eat, other than when he was little. “I don’t know. Recent, I suppose.” 

Tara stayed quiet, waiting for him to finish his thought. Then he remembered enjoying the feasts at Hogwarts, and added, “When I was a kid, I ate more normally. But then later on in school, when things started to get… bad.. I guess that’s when it started.”

Tara nodded in understanding, and Draco felt himself exhale in relief. He wasn’t sure how he expected her to react or why he cared, but something about her calm acceptance made him feel more relaxed. Most people would give him a weird look for skipping meals, and he never dared tell anyone why. 

“Let’s talk more about that after we’ve finished breakfast,” she suggested. She waited for Draco’s nod to continue eating her muffin.

Draco turned back to his toast and finished almost all of it and half his glass of water. He looked up to see that Tara had eaten some of the eggs and a half a bagel and felt a little diminished at having only managed one piece of toast. He was grateful when she vanished the remaining food with a spell. The smell of the eggs had been a bit too much.

Now that the table was empty of food, Tara held her mug of coffee in both hands and leaned her elbows lightly against the wooden tabletop. She paused a moment, perhaps ensuring that he was comfortable enough, before saying, “You mentioned earlier that eating became difficult when things got ‘bad’. What do you mean by that?”

Draco thought at first that she hadn’t actually understood what he meant about not enjoying food. But then he realized that she was asking what he meant by things getting bad. He groaned inwardly, knowing he was going to have to give her the background. He hesitated, then said, “I’m sure you know what side of the war my family stood on…”

Tara put her mug down on the table and met his eye. “There is no judgment here, Draco. Nothing you say is going to make me think any less of you,” she reassured him.

Draco wasn’t sure if he believed that. _ Everyone passes judgment,  _ he thought bitterly.  _ It’s simply matter-of-fact.  _ Draco couldn’t remember a single person he had ever met who had not passed judgment on him. But something in him hoped that this one time might be different. Tara seemed to see things the way he did, and, anyway, it wasn’t like she was going to let it go. She practically lived there now. 

Finally, he relented, “When I was sixteen, the Dark Lord gave me the Dark Mark. I had to prove to him that I could be a Death Eater. He.. gave me a task. If I failed, he would.. my parents would die.” 

Tara stayed silent, possibly sensing that Draco had more to say. So he continued, “I only had a few months to finish it. I.. I didn’t think I would be able to do it. I started skipping meals to work on it, but I also just.. couldn’t eat.”

He waited for her reaction. He knew that she couldn’t openly ridicule him. She was a therapist, after all. However, Draco also knew how to read between the lines with most people. He could usually tell simply by a slight frown or a miniscule twitch what someone thought, as long as he paid enough attention.

But Tara’s face was blank. Not without compassion, and not as though she was bored. It was blank in the way that showed she was listening without making any assumptions or decisions about what  _ really _ happened. She looked calm and collected, where Draco was nervously bouncing his leg underneath the table. 

Tara asked, “How would you describe the feelings you felt during that time?”

Draco thought about it for a moment, then answered, “I was… I was angry. And scared.” He flushed with embarrassment. He had never admitted to feeling afraid in front of anyone but his mother, and even that had been years ago. He felt pathetic.

Tara didn’t seem to think so, though, as she returned, “That makes sense. You were under a tremendous amount of stress.”

He wanted to laugh at the understatement, but couldn’t find it in him. When he opened his mouth, he heard himself repeat, “Stress.” His tone sounded bitter, and Draco supposed he was.

He looked away from Tara and blankly stared out the window. He wasn’t really registering what he saw outside, though. No, Draco was thinking about the countless nights he spent in the Room of Requirement, frantically trying to repair a vanishing cabinet. Knowing that failure meant death for his mother, his father, and himself. He shivered and crossed his arms.

Tara pulled him back to the present by asking in a soft voice, “Is that when your suicidal thoughts began?”

There was no question. “Yes.”

“What were those thoughts like, then?” Tara continued with a steady voice, as if his answer was not alarming at all. As if Draco was not crazy. 

Draco looked at her dark, soothing eyes again and wondered idly why he was giving up the truth so easily. The least he could do was try to keep up some of that Malfoy pride. But he was so tired. Too tired to fight this inevitable fall anymore. He spoke up, “I wished I was dead. I wished the Dark Lord would kill me instead.”

“Instead of your parents?” she queried. Seeking clarification, or just explanation, Draco wasn’t sure. 

“Yes, and.. well,” he took a deep breath. The exhale was full of shame, “And instead of making me complete the task.”

Tara nodded, then said, “Did you ever think about killing yourself?”

Draco thought about and realized he hadn’t. Not really. “Not like now,” he responded gloomily. 

“What is it like now?” Tara’s voice was not sarcastic, but Draco couldn’t understand how. Surely, she must have been told why she was here? 

Draco squinted at her in confusion and suspicion, then said evenly, “I attempted five time yesterday.”

He saw a flash of comprehension in her eyes, but otherwise her face remained expressionless. She seemed to have been trained on limiting her true reactions, and Draco mused that she was probably excellent at Occlumency as well. He realized then that the Aurors had not informed her of the details of the past day. He felt a bit guilty, but didn’t have the time just yet to work out why. 

Tara shifted in her chair and seemed to give off an aura of intense focus when she asked him, “Did you have a plan?”

Suddenly, Draco was filled with a feeling of frustration and began to bounce his leg again as he sputtered, “Well, yes. But - but I didn’t get to -'' He stopped abruptly and tried to take a calming breath. It didn’t work. “Of course, Potter fucking ruined it.”

He expected Tara to scold him for cursing but didn’t care much. Instead, she calmly continued, “How so?” Which just served to irritate him even more. 

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting. He knew it wasn’t Tara's fault. He knew she was just doing her job. He tried to explain, “I wasn’t going to do it yesterday. I wasn’t ready. But then my fucking owl went and stole my note and gave it to Harry Potter and now, here we are.”

Draco glared at Tara and suddenly found that all rationality had left his brain. He could no longer keep himself from blaming her for his misfortune. She continued to study him without a trace of feeling, and Draco felt painfully exposed.  _ Perhaps this was all a mistake after all _ , he thought bitterly. With clenched fists, he felt himself putting up walls that he knew would not easily come back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are following the development of this fic: I apologize for the hiatus on this new chapter. I have been struggling with some writer's block and anxiety recently. I can't promise that I will be able to post again in two days, but I will do my best to produce something at least once a week.


	13. Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally started writing again! I apologize for the long long wait. I haven't really felt up to writing in a long time, but I really do want to finish this story.

“I’m getting the feeling that you have closed yourself off from our conversation,” Tara said softly from the other side of the table.

  
Draco grunted in an uninterested way as he stared at the window. It didn’t take a lot of effort to conceal his true emotions. He had gotten very good at it during the war, always having to block his mind and emotions from the other Death Eaters and the Dark Lord. Currently, he was giving off an aura of indifference, but inside, he was filled with anger.

  
However, Draco supposed that Tara - a trained professional - was a bit better at reading him than most people, because then she said, “You don’t have to tell me everything, Draco, but putting up walls will only make your healing process take longer.”

  
Draco’s nostrils flared and in his mind he was cursing Tara. It was none of her business what was going on inside his head. Outwardly, he shrugged and continued to quietly focus his eyesight on anything but his therapist. He hoped she would get bored and leave him the hell alone.

  
Evidently, Tara had no intention of leaving him be, but she did let the subject go for the time being. After a few moments of silence, she suggested that they go outside and enjoy the sunshine for a bit. Draco didn’t give a rat’s ass what she made him do, he still wasn’t going to let her or anyone else take his dignity and control from him. Nevertheless, he followed her out into the courtyard and sat beside her on the stone bench where his mother used to sit as she watched the peacocks in the garden.

  
Unlike Auror Banks, Tara did not begin monologuing to fill the quiet space between them. They simply sat there, listening to the birds chirping and watching the leaves sway in the wind. Draco’s breath slowed and his eyelids fell shut as he lifted his face toward the sun. It felt warm on his skin, warmer than the fire from the night before. After a few minutes of soaking in the rare English sunshine, Draco felt much calmer and almost content.

  
Beside him, Tara stretched her legs out in front of her and leaned back slightly. Draco looked at her and was surprised to see a small smile on her young face. She met his eyes but didn’t say anything, just hummed softly before looking away again. It struck Draco that even though Tara was his therapist, she was just as human as him. He found he suddenly felt a little less lonely.

  
They stayed there for a little while before Draco finally felt the quiet beginning to bother him. He ventured to ask, “How long have you been doing this?”

  
Tara’s answer was professional, but her body remained relaxed as she replied, “I’ve been working in the mental health field for about ten years. I was a healer at Saint Mungos for seven of those before I decided to work independently with patients.”

  
Draco mulled this over for a moment or two, before saying, “Is it fulfilling?” As soon as the words left his lips, he realized how hopeless they sounded. Draco had never considered therapy as a career, but somehow the thought of doing anything for ten years and being happy with it seemed surreal to him. It was apparently one of those things Draco knew he could never have. His future was not bright.

  
Tara said softly, “I love it. It’s not easy, but it feels right."

Draco looked down at his hands in his lap. He clenched and unclenched them, watching the muscles beneath his skin move. Draco couldn’t remember the last time something ‘felt right’ to him. Everything always felt wrong.

  
“Did they even tell you anything about me before you accepted this.. job?” Draco asked bitterly. He really didn’t want to get back to their earlier conversation, but he couldn’t help but feel irritated at the incompetence of the aurors he had dealt with in the last twenty four hours.

  
Tara studied Draco’s face, probably taking in the annoyance in his eyes, and calmly replied, “Mr. Shacklebolt told me your name and that you were in need of a Home Healer. I was told that you were suicidal.”  
Draco huffed in disbelief.

“It’s better for me to hear your situation from you than from an auror,” Tara continued. She must have seen the surprised look on Draco’s face because then she explained, “Only you can tell your truth, Draco.”

  
He thought about that for a moment. He didn’t know how he felt about his version of events being referred to as his ‘truth’. Draco wasn’t planning on lying to Tara about anything that had happened to him, but somehow it felt weird to associate something so negative with a word that carried such positive connotations.

  
Still, it made sense that Tara would want to hear his side of the story. If she didn’t ask him what had happened, she might not get the whole picture. Shacklebolt was sure to have his own biased opinion on the situation, and even if he didn’t, Draco knew that Potter did.

  
“How are you feeling right now, Draco?” Tara asked, pulling him back out of his thoughts. He realized he had been quiet for several minutes.

  
Draco took a slow breath. “I feel…” He looked up at the clouds and felt the sun warming his face. He wanted to feel happy. He wanted to feel like he could do anything with his life. But instead all he felt was a heaviness that threatened to crush his lungs and an anger seeping deep into his stomach, rotting him slowly from inside.

  
Draco met Tara’s eyes, which were filled with kindness and determination, and felt his throat tighten around his words. Sadly, he looked away, fixing his eyes on his hands again as they laid on his lap. He heard his hoarse voice as if it was coming from somewhere else as he answered, “I feel fine.”


	14. No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry considers his next steps after getting suspended from the Ministry.

Harry stared at the ceiling of his bedroom for about an hour before giving up entirely on sleeping that night. He couldn’t stop going over Malfoy’s words in his mind. _Why do you think I was still alive by the time you got here?_ Harry felt like he’d been hit in the gut with a hammer.

  
He still felt a sense of shock at the thought of Malfoy attempting suicide. He couldn’t imagine anyone like Malfoy feeling compelled to end their life. He had always seemed so confident and proud of himself when they were at Hogwarts. Too proud, really. He was full of himself.

  
But then Harry remembered the haunted look in Malfoy’s eyes every time Harry saw him during the war. He remembered the way he cowered during the battle at Hogwarts and the way he cried in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom in sixth year. Harry’s heart ached as his memories showed him all the times Malfoy had broken in front of him. Regret filled his chest. Harry covered his face with his pillow, as if his thoughts could be drowned out if he couldn’t see.

  
After several hours of tossing and turning, Harry gave up on sleep and headed to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Kreacher had started the fireplace sometime during the night, so Harry sat in the warm living room as he waited for his tea to boil. Harry was still trying to convince Kreacher to accept clothes, but he refused to be ‘dismissed’, saying it was the highest dishonor one could be given as a house elf. So Harry set him up in one of the empty bedrooms and tried to make him feel more like a housemate than a servant. It was a work in progress.

  
Harry was staring into the flames, watching the embers dance, when the idea of telling Ron and Hermione crossed his mind. He felt like he had to tell them; he’d always shared all of his Malfoy-related findings and suspicions with them in the past, after all. But it somehow felt wrong, this time around, to tell them what had happened with Malfoy. And anyway, they might not understand it. He never told them about his own dark thoughts and feelings, hoping to spare them the pain of knowing. Admittedly, though, he was starting to think it would be worse for them to find out some other way, like he did with Malfoy.

  
His kettle began to whistle, making him jump, and he rose to make his tea. He managed to pour himself a cup without spilling any - a miracle considering his current absentmindedness - and curled up on the living room couch again to watch the flames. There was something soothing about fireplaces. They always had a way of putting his mind at ease.

  
By the time he had finished his tea, Harry’s mind felt clearer than it had in days. He decided that he would tell Hermione first, one-on-one, about what happened with Malfoy. Though he felt Hermione had more reason to hate Malfoy, Ron had always shown more malice toward him. Harry had a feeling Hermione would be more understanding of the sensitive situation.

  
Then, if she responded well, he could maybe tell her how he had been feeling increasingly depressed and sometimes suicidal since the battle. He hated the thought of getting to a place where he felt that no one could or would help him anymore. He hated the thought of Ron or Hermione finding him the way Malfoy had intended to be found.

  
As soon as the first few morning rays hit his window, Harry had made up his mind. He wasn’t going to waste these next couple of weeks. He had work to do, progress to make. He set down his tea, rose from the couch, and ascended the stairs to get dressed for the day. He pulled on a sweater and a pair of dark jeans and ran a hand through his long, curled hair. Running down the stairs for the second time in twelve hours, Harry’s mind was no longer panicked. He felt determined and sure.

  
He wasn’t going to let his traumas control his life anymore. He threw a pinch of floo powder into the flames, stepped in, and announced “Ron and Hermione’s”.


	15. Blameless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Hermione are not okay.

The very first thing Harry heard when he stepped into Ron and Hermione’s flat was the sound of breaking glass and raised voices, and he immediately froze. _Oh shit_ , he thought. His timing couldn’t have been worse. But before he had a chance to turn around and step back into the fireplace, Ron rounded the corner, ears and cheeks red from anger. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of a horrified Harry, and his face began to drain of color.

“Mate-” Ron began, but he was cut off by the sound of Hermione yelling from the other room.

“Just get OUT, Ron!” Her voice broke into a sob, and Harry’s heart clenched. Ron shut his eyes tightly and stood still for a moment. He turned back to the kitchen just a second before stomping away toward the front door. Harry watched him as he made to slam the door, then met Harry’s eyes and thought better of it. The quiet click of the door handle as he shut it was audible through the flat.

It must have surprised Hermione, because she peered out from the kitchen to see if Ron really left. There was a tense moment before she saw Harry standing stiff by the fireplace, still holding the floo powder bag in his left hand. She startled, then looked embarrassed. Finally she settled on broken and leaned against the wall, tears rolling down her cheeks. Harry crossed the room then and pulled Hermione into his arms, letting her cry into his shoulder. This was the first time he’d seen them fighting since being on the run during the war, but he wasn’t surprised. Harry had sensed a tense atmosphere between his two best friends the last few times he had visited, but he had never asked, hoping that Ron or Hermione would tell him if it got bad.

They didn’t say anything at first. Harry just held Hermione as she cried, and when she calmed, they both moved to the couch to sit in silence. They watched the flames of the fire burning low in the fireplace, and Harry tried not to remember the night before. He willed himself to think of something else, like all the times Sirius had spoken to him through the floo network at Hogwarts. But then Harry felt a pang of sadness. What he wouldn’t give to have Sirius back....

After a while, Hermione cleared her throat. Harry looked at her and took in the misery on her face. She began, “I’m sorry, Har-”

But he cut her off, “Don’t apologize, Hermione.”

She continued to stare at the embers, tear-streaked cheeks glinting in the morning light coming through the window. She shook her head solemnly, then spoke again, “It’s not good.”

“I know,” he nudged her knee with his, letting her know that she wasn’t alone.

She looked at him then, smiling sadly. “You look dreadful,” she said in a tired voice.

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” Harry chuckled sarcastically, earning him a light shove. They were quiet for another moment.

“I’m not sure I can -” she started to say, but trailed off, rubbing her eyes anxiously.

“It’s ok,” Harry said, understanding. “You don’t have to explain. Just - I’m here, if you need me.”

Hermione nodded, then pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them, resting her forehead on her arms. Harry draped his arm over her shoulder and sat quietly with her.

He couldn’t help but be a little angry with Ron, even without knowing if he was in the wrong. Hermione deserved happiness. They all did. It was hard enough trying to find it without hurtful words and painful fights.

But Harry knew Ron was hurting, too. They all were.

And, really, no one was blameless in all this.


	16. No One Is Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry actually gets to talk to Hermione.. a little.

After about half an hour of silence between the two of them, Hermione apparently decided to distract herself from the fight. She peered at him with a concerned look in her tired eyes, and Harry braced himself. He had come here to talk about his problems and feelings, but he had lost his resolve as soon as he saw Ron walk out the door. He felt like it was selfish to add to Hermione’s emotional burden by unloading his own, especially when she was already in a state of distress. But that wouldn’t stop her asking.

“Have you been sleeping alright?” she began slowly.

“Hermione, you know I never sleep,” he joked. Hermione didn’t laugh.

“Are you having nightmares again? I thought it was getting better since… May.” She tactfully avoided saying  _ since Voldemort died.  _ She was wrong, his nightmares had only gotten worse since the end of the war. But Harry had never admitted that. In fact, he avoided talking about his nightmares at all.

“It was just a long night…” he broke eye contact. Hermione was no legimens, but Harry was not as good at lying as he used to be either. Especially not to his best friends. 

“Oh,” she paused for a moment. “Was it seeing George?”

“What? Oh - no, it’s not,” Harry sputtered a bit, realizing how that sounded. “No, dinner was fine. Dinner was great, it’s just…” He looked for a simple lie, but couldn’t find one. He sighed, defeated, then admitted, “I got a letter last night.”

“Oh?” Hermione seemed to be holding her breath. Harry got letters all the time. Fan mail, death threats, journalists asking to interview him, invitations to speak at public events. He was used to all that. It affected him, sure, but never enough to say anything about it. She must have known from his tone that this was different. By Merlin, was it different. 

“It was.. someone’s su- suicide note,” Harry’s voice shook, and he saw Hermione’s eyes widen. He continued, “Kingsley and I went to the scene. They were fine - the, um, person who sent the letter. But it kind of.. shook me up a bit.” 

Hermione put her hand on Harry’s, and he saw that she was very tense. She murmured, “Of course, it would.” She seemed to be looking for something to say. Harry held his breath. Finally, Hermione said softly, “Are you ok?” 

He held her gaze and opened his mouth to say he was fine. But the words didn’t leave his mouth. Of course Harry was ok. Harry was fine. After all, he was here. So why couldn’t he say it?

Harry decided to ignore the question, and said instead, “I sort of got suspended from work.”

Hermione looked shocked, and if the situation wasn’t so serious, Harry might’ve laughed. It had been such a long time since he had seen that expression on her face. It felt like they were still kids for a minute. But then, Harry guessed they were. 

“What do you mean you got suspended?” Hermione seemed a bit incredulous now. 

“I may have broken a few rules…” he admitted sheepishly.

“Don’t tell me you did anything dangerous?” Her tone was warning.

Harry couldn’t help it, he retorted, “Hermione, I’m an auror, of course I did.”

Hermione huffed indignantly and scolded, “You know what I mean, Harry!”

“Did I do something I shouldn’t have? Technically, yes, but-”

“Harry! Why do you feel the need to ignore your own safety?! There are rules for a  _ reason _ -” Hermione’s voice was rising, but Harry cut her off defensively.

“I didn’t do it on purpose! I just had to make sure that he-” Harry shut his eyes and took a breath. When he started again, his voice was low and calm, “I didn’t want to be too late.”

Hermione didn’t say anything, and he looked over at her. She still looked a little bit angry, but she also looked like she understood. She looked away and seemed to be thinking for a moment, before she said, “What is going to happen to them now?”

Harry knew she was thinking of Saint Mungos. She had taken her parents there after the war to reverse the confundus charm she’d placed on them. The things she had learned and told Harry about their mental health ward - if you could call it that - made Harry’s blood boil. 

“Kingsley found a healer to stay at the, um, at his house with him,” Harry answered. He had almost said  _ the manor _ but caught himself. He didn’t want to tell Hermione that it was Malfoy. It didn’t feel right. 

“Huh,” she said, as if surprised by that. She looked at her hands, which she had folded onto her lap. It struck Harry how fragile she looked all of a sudden. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Hermione and thinking she looked this vulnerable. Something was wrong. 

“Um,” Harry cleared his throat. He felt awkward but still said, “How are your parents doing?” 

Hermione blinked a few times but didn’t look up at him as she responded, “They’re alright. Mum still forgets my name sometimes, but she knows who I am.” Hermione looked like she might start crying again. Harry put an arm around her tentatively and pulled her into a lopsided hug. After a moment, Hermione gave and wrapped her arms around Harry, too. 

“It still hurts, though,” she whispered. 

Harry didn’t answer. He wished he could just squash the whole world into a little ball and throw it as far away from him as possible. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I'm sorry about how inconsistently I'm posting these chapters. When I started this work, COVID stuff had not really started yet. I have been incredibly busy because of it pretty much all year. I am doing my best to post at least once a month now though because I really like this fic and I don't want to give up on it.   
> I know it's a slow burn, but I plan on having Harry and Draco interact with each other again soon. Thanks to everyone who is still reading for your patience. <3


	17. Who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Content Warning***  
> This chapter contains suicidal ideation.

Draco was staring down at a blank piece of parchment, his quill untouched next to his right hand. Tara had asked him to try to write down his feelings.  _ You can write as much or as little as you want, _ she had said.  _ About anything you want, as long as it’s about you. _ Draco didn’t feel very compelled to write anything. He didn’t see the point of it. 

Okay, he understood why she wanted him to do it. She wanted to know what he was thinking and feeling. Naturally. There’s a lot one can put on paper that one can’t say out loud. He could even write that down, if he wanted to.

Draco just didn’t see the point of trying. It had taken him days to write the letter that had gotten him in this position to begin with. And that was  _ his _ decision. 

But this log was not his choice, no matter how hard Tara might try to convince him it was. Plus, the end goal of it was to give Tara insight on how to help him. Draco didn’t  _ want _ help. Draco  _ wanted _ to die.

Thinking about it all made him mad enough to write it all down, purely out of spite. After all, why shouldn’t Tara know how much he didn’t want or need her help? Why shouldn’t she know that her presence was secretly unwelcome and unwanted? As nice as Tara Scott was, Draco knew that, in the end, she was just doing this for a paycheck. What did she care whether he lived or died? Why should he feel obligated to be  _ kind _ to her for  _ forcing  _ a service on him which he didn’t want or ask for?

He ran out of ink in the middle of a sentence, and took that as an opportunity to take stock. He started to read what he had written and realized with mortification that he was falling for the trap. By writing all this down, he was doing exactly what Tara had asked him to do. He had intended on using this ‘assignment’ as a way to rebel. And yet, in his angry rant, he had been more honest than if he had just half-assed a report of his feelings about the day. He had done exactly what he was trying  _ not _ to do.

Draco rubbed his eyes in irritation, then grabbed a new well of ink from inside his desk drawer. He was too tired to refill the empty one with his wand. It had been sitting on his nightstand on the other side of his bedroom ever since Tara returned it to him. Despite this, Draco had been avoiding touching it all day.

He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he felt offended by its refusal to cast the killing curse. It felt easier to blame the wand rather than the wizard. Or maybe he just didn’t want another reminder of the previous night.  _ God, what a nightmare that was, _ he thought.

Draco considered tearing the parchment to tiny pieces, and tried to, only to discover it was enchanted to never tear or crumple. Inwardly, he chuckled darkly.  _ This must be a common issue then _ . Instead, he finished his sentence about his obligation to Tara, or lack thereof, and decided he wasn’t writing anything else. 

Maybe he fell for the trap, but he wasn’t going to hand in unfinished work. Choppy, sure. But at least he crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s. He was a Malfoy, after all.

Draco set the parchment aside and looked up at Herodius, whose beak was tucked into the speckled brown feathers on his chest. Draco cursed him silently. Why did his owl have to be so goddamn clever? And how did he know, anyway, who that letter was meant for? Owls can’t read.. can they?

Draco thought idly of all the times he had written out letters to Potter only to crumple, tear, or burn them up. He never once had actually told Herodius to send a letter to the Golden Boy. Embarrassingly, he had admitted his frustrating crush to his eagle owl, more as a way of admitting it to himself. But that had been only once, years ago. Surely, Herodius wouldn’t remember…

Draco shook his head, too tired to think about it. For all he knew, Draco told the damned bird to send it in his sleep. It didn’t matter anyway. The damage was done.

Draco snatched the parchment off his desk, still glaring at his sleeping owl, and swept out of the room.  _ No need to leave any writing lying around that feathered beast, _ he thought, making his way downstairs to find his healer. He was ready to get this over with, whatever  _ this _ was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is an owl pun because I’m a big dork and I’m not sorry :P   
> Also, Draco doesn’t want to die. He just wants the pain to end. That doesn’t mean he needs to die, and he’ll come to realize that soon.


End file.
